


The Thursday Night Job

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: CW Network RPF, Leverage
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chef!Chad, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Spoilers, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hitter and the chef.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thursday Night Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anyothergirl415](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyothergirl415/gifts).



> I fully intend to blame someone for this, I just haven't decided who. For now, we'll say it's Brie's fault. Actually, I take that back. It's TOTALLY HER FAULT.

Eliot brings the sharp blade down one last time, and smiles.

"Now _that_ is how you chop a Guatemalan red pepper."

He stands back and lets Chad look down at the cutting board, the blond's chef's coat hanging open to reveal a long-sleeved white henley over a black tank, and a thin silver chain disappearing behind the fabric.

"See, you chop 'em at this angle, and you're able to get the seeds out easier," Eliot adds. "Plus you get rid of the center. That's flavorless and you don't want it in your food."

"You're a genius." Chad's indulging him with the compliment, eyes alight.

"Think you can handle it?"

Chad picks up a knife from his own kit. "Step aside."

When the bistro is closed and the doors are locked, the kitchen is empty except for the two of them. It's getting late and Eliot's still a little exhausted from the one-two punch of mountain climbing and jet-lag, but he's lived through so much worse that he can ignore it. When he's in Boston—and when he can get away from the team—he never misses his standing Thursday night appointment.

"How's that?"

Eliot looks over Chad's shoulder. The chef is slightly taller than Eliot, but his body's long and lean. During business hours, Eliot knows Chad keeps his blond hair pinned back behind his ears, but the shorter strands have worked themselves loose and fallen across his forehead. Chad keeps puffing and trying to blow the hair out of his eyes, and Eliot's almost tempted to tell him to cut it short. Fortunately he's not a hypocrite, considering his own hair, and he likes the loose and laid-back style on Chad too much to see it change.

"Try to save more of the skin. It's thick but it'll boil softer and give you some great flavor."

"Like this?" Chad angles the long blade and makes another precise cut.

"Yeah." Eliot pats Chad's shoulder. "It'll get to feel a lot more natural once you've done it a few times."

He can see the corner of Chad's mouth quirk upward.

"Just like sex."

Chad Michael Murray—whose full name appeared on his business cards—opened this bistro less than two years ago with a former boyfriend. The dream was Chad's but the money was his boyfriend's, and not all of it came from honest investments. When the shady loans were called in, Chad's boyfriend had split, leaving Chad with the debt and a bistro full of hired muscle ready to collect.

Not a single one of the thugs had noticed the long-haired and quiet man sitting by himself in the corner trying to enjoy his yellowfin tuna while they threatened the devastated chef.

After that little _loan issue_ had been resolved, it hadn't taken long for the little bistro—and Chad—to get a new silent business partner.

Chad cleans up the counter they've been working on while Eliot returns everything to the walk-in. It's been a while since Eliot worked in—well, since he went undercover in—a professional kitchen, but he and Chad move around each other like they've been choreographing this dance for years. Kitchens can be chaos, and not always the fun kind, but Chad runs his small space well and Eliot fits right in.

When the kitchen is spotless again, Eliot follows Chad to the office set into the far back corner of the bistro's square footage. With most of the space taken up by Chad's desk, filing cabinets, and a soft couch that Eliot knows Chad sleeps on most nights, he waits in the doorway as Chad hangs up his chef's whites and starts undoing the ties on his black pants.

"Feel like giving me a hand with these?"

Eliot shakes his head but he doesn't stop staring at Chad's long fingers fiddling at the waist of his pants. 

"Not if you keep using lines like that."

Chad drops his hands and it's as simple as that. Stepping up, Eliot winds one arm around the small of Chad's back and uses the other to angle Chad's chin down. Their gazes remain locked on one another until Eliot's mouth finds Chad's lips already parted for him.

Who said a sure thing couldn't be sexy as hell?

Even before Eliot had done what he did best—namely, dropping one dumb piece of muscle after another until they were lying in a heap on the sidewalk and crying for their mommas, and Chad's bistro was thug-free—there had been something delicious stirring between Eliot and the young chef. 

At first, their flirtations were innocuous; Eliot needed a break from being the fifth wheel when the team got together. At least Parker and Hardison were entertaining to watch, while Nate and Sophie...well, who were they kidding? Eliot had initially walked into the hole-in-the-wall bistro for the pork tenderloin and sweet potatoes, but he'd stayed for the delectable and unassuming manner of its head chef. They'd gone from casual eye-contact to complimentary fig beignets, gradually easing into conversation before Chad's ex-boyfriend's shady debts had been called in.

Using one hand to untie the drawstring at Chad's waist, Eliot slips his fingers under the fabric and plays at the elastic on Chad's underwear.

"I thought about not wearing any," Chad says. He licks around his lips and catches Eliot's mouth with the tip of his tongue.

"I think that's a health code violation." Eliot feels his drawl vibrating against the uneven pattern of stubble around Chad's jawline.

With a low laugh, Chad presses their mouths back together, a hint of wantonness showing through as his tongue tries to dominate the kiss, to taste and take all at once. Eliot lets him, because he's got other things to concentrate on, like all that heat coming up through the cotton where Chad's cock is curved up into the palm of his hand. He presses with the thick of his hand until Chad's bucking up against him.

"You like that?"

Chad hums his encouragement. "You know what I really like?" he asks. "I like when you get all worked up, your voice sounds like Jack on the rocks, like whiskey I can taste."

Chad's slender fingers tangle through his hair and set it loose from the elastic he'd tied it back with earlier, combing and clawing in turn depending on the pressure Eliot applies to his cock, stroking through his underwear. Eliot's tempted to go hard and heavy, but there's something appealing in bringing dozens of little reactions to the surface—watch 'em flicker through Chad's eyes and bring a flush of color to his skin. So he keeps his hand working steady, lets Chad's mouth gain momentum as he chases Eliot's tongue between their lips, until the chef's knees buckle in and they both fall onto the couch.

"Glad this was behind us," Chad laughs, blue eyes spying on Eliot from beneath lowered lashes.

"I remember you enjoying the floor once or twice."

Chad gets himself rearranged, back against the armrest with Eliot fighting for space between his thighs.

"Yeah, but not tonight. I've been here since six this morning, and my knees are achy."

"Old man," Eliot taunts, knowing full-well what Chad will throw back.

"Go look in a mirror," Chad sasses. Predictable, but it still makes Eliot grin.

He drags his knuckles over Chad's cock, finds hot skin through the opening of his boxer-briefs. Twisting his head toward the back of the couch, Chad exposes the corded muscle of his throat, a perfect stretch of skin for Eliot's mouth to claim. And the second Eliot's teeth touch skin, Chad loses it, grappling against Eliot's hands to get his pants and underwear pushed down around his legs.

"Hey," Eliot mutters, "get a hold of yourself."

"You su—" Chad starts to say, but Eliot squeezes tight around his dick to cut his voice off at the pass.

Once upon a backroom hook-up, Eliot felt bad about the way his callused hands contrasted with the unroughened skin of the person he was with, like he was touching something he shouldn't. But Chad's hands have been sliced and burned, his knuckles knocked and bruised. Soft skin sacrificed for the sake of cuisine—his true craft—and Eliot certainly doesn't mind the way Chad's hands feel on his skin when the chef gets a hold of him.

Their chosen career fields couldn't be further apart, but Eliot and Chad share a little sliver of the world on Thursday nights, perfectly happy. It's more than most people can steal for themselves.

Chad knocks Eliot's hand away long enough to strip off his henley, leaving his hair mussed and his black wife-beater scrunched up around his ribs. Naked from knees to sternum, Chad sinks back down into the couch and widens the spread of his thighs, giving Eliot more space to work with. Chad's cock is throbbing in his palm, pulsing and eager like it's got a mind of its own. Eliot doesn't need to look down to see what he's doing; he'd rather watch Chad's face contort into all sorts of pleasurable expressions. Lips gaped around voiceless words, eyes squeezed shut until they open suddenly to focus on Eliot's mouth, inches away.

A few more strokes and Chad is coming, hips kicking up violently—almost enough to dislodge Eliot—as his cock soaks Eliot's hand with long strings of sticky fluid. He places his damp palm on Chad's stomach to feel the aftershocks pump through his muscles, licking the happy sounds right out of Chad's mouth.

Fucking _delicious_.

"I don't think I wanna move," Chad says, breath barely caught.

Eliot shoots him a dirty look. His glowering, laser-focused glare has been known to send even the stoutest corporate enforcers to their knees in surrender, but Chad— _Chad Michael Fucking Murray_ —well, he grins, lopsided, in the wake of Eliot's stare, swooping up to land a kiss on the bump of Eliot's chin.

"Doesn't mean I'm not gonna take care of you, tough guy."

Trying to sit up, Chad grabs Eliot's forearms and pulls him farther up onto his knees, only hissing once when denim drags across his sensitive cock, so that Eliot's straddling his hips. Not a position Eliot is used to, but Chad doesn't seem to be taking notice, ripping Eliot's belt from the buckle and shoving it aside. Eliot's dick is pressing against his zipper through his underwear as if it's trying to help Chad work through the layers of clothing.

When his cock is free, Chad teases the head with his lips, leaning up to blow over the skin or suck for a moment before he's pulling back and wrapping his hand around it. He doesn't stick to one method of attack, rolling Eliot's balls between his fingers and tugging gently before he drops his hands to Eliot's thighs, yanking him forward until his cock is more comfortably in reach.

Sucked and stroked to orgasm, Eliot throws his head back and rides the sensations, shivering when Chad switches between using his mouth and his hands. Chad doesn't take him in deep, but the mix of wet, hot enthusiasm and the twist of Chad's hand around the base of his cock shatters his stamina, and in minutes, Eliot's wrapping the fingers of one hand through Chad's hair in warning. He doesn't let go when he comes all over Chad's throat and upper chest, gripping blond strands until he hears Chad moan and try to tug away.

"Sorry," Eliot whispers, not a lot of power left in his voice to do much else. The pressure of his fingers relents immediately and Chad, grateful, tugs him down for a long, slow kiss.

"I still don't want to move," Chad says after Eliot pulls away, knee-walking backwards until he can swing a leg over Chad's body and step off the couch. Chad's chest and throat are sweaty and his black tank is stained, but neither fact seems to bother him. He sits up and pulls a fleece throw down from the back of the couch, wiping the come off of his chin first.

"Want me to grab a towel?"

"I need to take this home and wash it anyway," Chad explains, wiping his chest with the dark fleece blanket and dropping it to cover his lap. "I think I'm hungry again."

"Always thinkin' about food."

"And sex," Chad clarifies. "But that part of my brain has been satisfied _for now_. Obviously, the more sex I have, the better my cooking will be."

"That right?"

"Sex and food, they're pretty much one in the same."

"Get dressed," Eliot says, doing up the button on his jeans, "and then we'll talk about food and more sex, in that order."

Instead of rushing to comply, Chad remains sitting on the couch, hands in his lap over the blanket. Eliot lets him have a few minutes—sometimes Chad's brain gets snagged up on some new recipe he'd just thought of, possibly inspired by his recent orgasm—until finally, Chad clears his throat.

"Hey, so Aiden, my bartender, has a few contacts at the Herald, and word is that one of their food critics is planning to have dinner here on Saturday."

"Congrats man, that could be a real opportunity for you."

"You should stop by that night, you know, if you're in town. No pressure," Chad adds, holding up his hands. "Just a friendly invitation."

"Are you thinkin' you need security?"

"Oh yeah, this critic could totally _murder_ my reputation. I need backup," Chad responds to the joke. "Actually, you sort of calm me down. I can be a bit of a crazy person in the kitchen, and since I know this guy is coming... Plus, I wouldn't mind seeing you more often."

"I can try," Eliot says. "That's the best I can do. No promises."

Chad's smile is genuine, but doesn't reach his eyes. He's again quiet for a moment, leaving Eliot to stew in the awkward pause, and then he sighs.

"Listen, Eliot..." Chad leans back and gathers the throw over his lower body. "You promised to make me a better chef, and you have. You promised to stop by when you could, and you have. And the other night, you promised to do that thing...with your tongue?"

Eliot smirks.

"And man," Chad sighs, "did you _ever_. My point is that you've never made me a promise you couldn't keep, so I don't need you to start now. Just...you know. Keep me in mind, that's all."

He waits for Chad to continue, but the chef's mouth remains shut with the tiniest hint of a grin.

"That it?"

"Yeah," Chad says. "Were you expecting a long speech?"

Eliot shrugs.

"Hey, I like keeping things simple, you know? Just like my recipes."

"I knew there was something I liked about you."

"My man," Chad laughs, "he says the nicest things."

After that, Chad doesn't put up a fight when Eliot drags him off the couch. His mouth gets in the way when Eliot tries to redress him, though, darting forward for a kiss here and there, or nipping Eliot's earlobe. The chef's two-track mind has obviously gone back to _sex_ for the moment.

Eliot bites Chad's jaw in warning and comes away with a mix of tastes.

"You made some of that jalapeño hummus today, didn't ya?"

Chad laughs. "How the hell would you know that?"

Eliot dips in for another taste, licking under the curve of Chad's chin. "Cumin and roasted peppers. They have very distinctive flavors." He grins because Chad hasn't heard the joke enough yet to back-sass him on it. "Are we getting food or going back to your apartment?"

Chad actually looks indecisive for a few seconds, working out the difficult puzzle of what his body's craving most at the moment. Eliot's fine either way; being with Chad is like being on vacation, free from schemes and well-dressed bad guys. The longer he can keep the night going, the better.

"Food," Chad finally says with a definitive nod, "then my apartment, 'cause I'm not done with you yet."

 

FIN.


End file.
